


A Risk of Hazard

by Antiquity



Series: Pistols for Two [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Regency, Gambling, Getting Together, M/M, Misunderstandings, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-02
Updated: 2016-12-02
Packaged: 2018-09-03 11:47:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8712430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Antiquity/pseuds/Antiquity
Summary: “I have one thing left to stake,” Slade said triumphantly. “M’nephew, the brat, no blood of mine but still the law says I’m his guardian for the next four months, till Richard reaches twenty-one. Still mine to bet, then! Cover my wager, yes? Who’ll have the boy? Who’ll cover?” Richard never thought his future would be dictated by a game of Hazard and a reckless journey to Gretna Green, but the dice have been cast and he must wait for them to fall - even when the stakes include his heart.Inspired by and fused with Georgette Heyer's "Hazard."





	

**Author's Note:**

> I absolutely adore Georgette Heyer and the Regency period, and as I also adore Bruce/Dick it seemed like a marvellous opportunity! I've taken some dialogue straight from the story (since I have no idea how to play Hazard or what the calls mean) but I've made a few changes to better suit the characters. I don't intend any plagiarism or disrespect, only loving adaptations of Ms Heyer's stories.
> 
> PS marriage between two men or two women is suddenly legal and common in this regency era, because that would be nice.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

The guttering candles and flickering embers in the hearth illuminated the room only faintly, but the light cast was enough to reveal how very pale the young man was and how tightly he gripped his hands together as he stood just inside the room in answer to the peremptory summons delivered to his room a few minutes ago. That it was nearly midnight did not seem to matter to Uncle Slade – no, not uncle, not after this, not after too many years of tyranny and dissolution, drinking dry the estate his mother had left to him through her sister, who a year later was taken by the same wasting sickness and allowed the estate to fall into her husband Slade’s cruel, neglectful hands. 

The young man had cast one swift, shrewd look around the room as he entered, and though now he stared with an unseeing gaze at nothing but the faded tapestry on the other side of the room he knew who was present. There by the fire was Oliver Queen, slumped back in his chair with eyes closed and mouth open after one too many glasses of port; there by the table with his head pillowed on his folded arms was Jonathan Crane; Lord Luthor, not as drunk as Queen, was sitting by the decanter and surveying the level of the men’s glasses with a bleary eye; on the other side of the table reclined Ra’s al Ghul, cheeks red but fingers still nimble as he shuffled the cards; and to the left of the sullen, sprawling hulk that was Slade at the head of the table sat Bruce Wayne with his cravat untied, a pile of notes, roulettes and crumpled IOUs by his elbow, and a reckless, dangerous look in his eyes. The evening had clearly been a successful one for the young nobleman, and yet tension simmered in his bearing, transmitting itself through the tight line of his jaw and unsettling Slade as he tried and failed to refill his glass.

“Devil confound it,” he spat after sloshing the amber liquid across his cuff, “Lex, fill it up, damn you! Deep pockets and deeper glasses, that’s a – a given, a necessity, for playing here, you know.”

“Wilson, your pockets are wholly to let,” Ra’s said slyly as Lord Luthor tipped another generous measure of brandy into Slade’s glass, and offered his host the deck of crisp cards.

The young man watched from under his lashes as a red flush crawled up Slade’s cheeks. He would like to believe otherwise, but he had an icy inkling in the back of his mind as to why Slade had summoned him so late, and had dressed in his riding breeches, boots and plain grey coat accordingly. A moment later, his worst suspicions were confirmed.

“You think I don’t know that? All done up, emptier than your black heart, al Ghul – but I have one thing left to stake,” he said triumphantly. “M’nephew, the brat, no blood of mine but still the law says I’m his guardian for the next –” Slade broke off to count on his fingers, an ugly look in his eyes, “– four months, till Richard reaches twenty-one. Still mine to bet, then! Cover my wager, yes? Who’ll have the boy? Who’ll cover?”

Nothing but a sharp, silent intake of breath betrayed what Richard thought of being used as a token in a gambling game, but the others made no secret of their feelings. Oliver Queen jerked upright on the heels of a resounding snore, looked around blearily, grasped the edges of the conversation and said,

“Tha – that’s Mr Grayson, you know. Wilson, whass your game?” He leaned forward to poke Crane in his shoulder. “Crane, that’s Richard. Wilson’s staking him; that’s not right!”

Crane shrugged him off with a groan. “Can’t stake anything – Wayne holds all my vowels. Can’t cover.”

“No, you fool, Wilson is setting Richard as a wager!”

“Bad ton,” Lord Luthor agreed, eyes flicking up and down the length of Richard’s body appraisingly. “You’re drunk, Wilson.”

Slade burst into rough laughter. “Not drunk enough that I’ll back down from a wager! Come, who’ll cover me? Isn’t much, but the boy must be worth something! Ra’s, you’re too old to take him for a husband, but that spitfire of a daughter of yours might.”

Ra’s lifted one eyebrow. “I doubt that, Wilson. Amusing as it is, I shan’t cover that stake.”

Anger now thickening his voice even more than the drink had, Slade rounded on the only man not to have spoken. Wayne’s eyes were fixed on Richard, who pretended not to be aware of the scrutiny – pretended, with a proud lift of his chin, that the conversation in the over-heated room meant nothing to him. “Well, Wayne?” Slade demanded, wondering for the brief second the drunken haze lessened if he’d ever seen the man in such a wild mood before, “Will you cover? Or will you refuse?”

Wayne’s eyes flicked from Richard to Slade. “I – refuse?”

Another caw of laughter shook Slade. “Ah, a challenge! Come, Wayne, cover. What’s the brat worth?”

With a single motion, Wayne pushed the pile of vowels and IOUs by his elbow into the centre of the table, eyes not leaving Richard’s pale face. Ra’s hummed thoughtfully, managing to pour himself a glass of brandy with none of Slade’s graceless fumbling. Queen, staggering upright and tottering unsteadily over to Wayne’s chair, gripped his shoulder and enunciated with great care,

“Bruce, you’re drunk.”

A sharp smile sliced its way across Bruce’s face. “Drunk or not, no man shall set a stake I won’t cover.”

“But good god, man, that’s…that’s…” Queen pointed at the notes, paper and roulettes in the pile and made a noise of wordless disbelief. Lord Luthor filled in the gap.

“That’s a matter of twenty thousand pounds there, Wayne.”

Bruce shook Queen’s hand off his shoulder. “Call a main, Wilson.”

“Seven,” responded Slade, and with a flick of his wrist he cast the dice he’d snatched from Ra’s across the table.

Richard’s eyes followed the dice as they danced over the wood but he made no other indication the game meant anything to him.

“Five to seven,” Ra’s said as the dice fell.

Slade scooped them up and cast them again, and they fell on five and ace.

“ _Cinque-ace_ ,” Ra’s said again, interest in his voice as he constituted himself groom-porter. “Once more, Wilson.”

“I know, damn you,” growled Slade, gathering up the dice. Two vicious shakes later, and they clattered across the table as the room held its breath.

“ _Quatre-trey_!” Ra’s announced, lifting his glass in a toast.

Queen gaped at the dice and then shook Bruce’s shoulder again, heedless of the glare cast his way. “You’ve – Bruce, you’ve the devil’s own luck!”

Richard’s gaze too was fixed on the dice, though it rose almost immediately to Bruce’s face. The man leapt up, nothing of the drink in his stance, and crossed the room to bow before Richard.

“I have won you in fair play,” he said, a light, reckless note in his voice, and stretched out an imperious hand. “It’s time we were going, is it not? Will you come with me?”

With only a moment for thought, for a swift appraisal that was more measuring than hesitative, Richard lifted his own hand to lay it in Bruce’s and nodded. “I will come.”

A bark of wild, joyous laughter rung out and Bruce raised Richard’s hand to his lips. “Excellent. I am drunk, though.”

“I know,” Richard replied, and Bruce smiled again.

“You’ve spirit. Come.”

“But Bruce,” Queen protested, dropping into his vacated chair at Luthor’s push, “damn it, Bruce, the joke – joke’s gone too far! Joking’s not your style anyhow, you know!”

“Play or pay,” Bruce returned with a smile that was not wholly pleasant. Ra’s chuckled but made no more to prevent them from leaving, more intent on the spectacle.

As Bruce opened the door, Slade, who had been staring at the dice while a snarl scrawled its way across his face, swung around and cursed at them, ignoring the glass his elbow knocked to the floor. “You hell-born brat,” he swore, “take one step out that door and you’ll never come back!”

Richard cast one last loathing look at him. “I shall never return.”

“I mean it!”

“You have ruled over me and my house for three years – believe me when I say I would rather die than come back.”

Slade flushed and started out of his chair, but Bruce’s arm was suddenly around Richard’s waist and his much broader body between nephew and uncle. “By god, you’re crazy!” Slade spat, and turned away.

“Crazy or drunk, what odds?” Bruce said, and swept them from the salon into the great hall. When he would have gone straight to the main doors, however, Richard stopped him.

“I should fetch a coat, if you do not mind.”

“By all means,” Bruce replied, sweeping him another bow. Richard returned a minute later with his greatcoat over his arm and a small bag in his hand to find Bruce dressed in his many-caped driving coat, pulling on his gloves with his ebony cane tucked under his arm. “Excellent! If you are ready, then?”

The misty dawn received them, and though Bruce reeled at the suddenness of the cool air he did not lose his balance and simply opened the door of the post-chaise and four for Richard. Ignoring the surprise of the postilions, Richard leapt inside, turning his back on the hulking marble edifice behind him and looking out instead over the open fields awaiting them. Bruce followed him inside after a moment spent instructing his servants.

“Gretna Green, and spring them!”

The men stared at him, and then at each other. They had come up from London, and in preparing their return had naturally faced the chaise south; upon mentioning this, though, as well as the fact that Gretna Green lay some three hundred miles away, they simply received another, “Gretna!” in answer before Mr Wayne climbed inside and shut the door. Knowing their master, the coachman did as he was bid: however much he might regret his drunken decision to journey north, Mr Wayne would be much less angry upon regaining his senses and finding himself halfway to Scotland than he would be if he found himself sensibly back in London contrary to his orders.

So the chaise was duly turned around and set on its way. Inside, Bruce tossed his hat onto the seat beside him along with his cane, and turned with a smile to his companion. “I’ve a notion I shall regret this, but I am rather drunk, I’m afraid.”

“I know,” Richard said again, tucked into his corner. “It doesn’t signify; I am used to it.”

That was the sum of their discourse, for Mr Wayne fell asleep a moment later and Richard stared out of the window at the slowly-lightening sky, occasionally clasping and unclasping his hands in his lap.

Potter’s Bar, Bell Bar, Hatfield were all passed. Richard paid the tickets at the turnpikes with coins rescued from under the seat cushions and from inside Bruce’s coat pockets. After the long rise of Digswell Hill and upon reaching the Brickwall pike the postilion mounted on one of the wheelers told Richard that if they were to continue pressing north the horses should be changed soon at Welwyn. Bruce could not be roused, only groaning slightly at the attempts Richard made to shake him awake, and so Richard gave the orders to drive to the first respectable house in Welwyn and rest there for the rest of the morning. He had had time to consider the rashness of this flight, how unprepared he was and how little he had with him, and though the fierce anger still simmered in his blood Richard could not in all aching conscience press on with such a madcap scheme when his co-conspirator would, in his own words, come to regret it.

No one at the White Hart seemed very surprised to receive as a guest a sleeping Mr Wayne in the very early hours of the morning, and soon enough a few strong ostlers had wrangled him out of the coach and carried him up to the bedchamber adjacent to Richard’s.

Mr Wayne’s drunkenness was explanation enough for the young gentleman’s unexplained presence, but neither Smith nor his wife had considered him _mad_. “Wild, of course, very wild,” the landlord said to his wife as they returned to their quarters after seeing the guests settled, “but mark my words, he’ll be in the devil’s own temper tomorrow when he wakes. Let’s just hope whatever moon-madness this is doesn’t last.”

The devil’s own temper was an accurate guess. He woke an hour before noon with a head aching fit to burst, a dry mouth, and the sensation of being fully clad in his tight-fitting coat. When Bruce gathered enough wits to survey himself, he found this was true – whoever had pulled off his boots had failed to extricate him from his excellently-cut coat of superfine cloth. Yanking furiously at the bellpull, he poured himself a glass of water from the jug on the sideboard and glared with fierce misgiving at the landlord who had come in answer to the summons.

“I’ve seen your face before,” he said, fingers pressing into his aching temples. “Where the devil am I?”

“To be sure, you are at the White Hart, my lord,” replied the landlord with an ingratiating smile, opening the shutters and ignoring the groan the bright sunlight provoked.

“Which one?” Bruce demanded. “I know of twenty at least, though the slats of this blasted bed rule out Bromley and Sheffield.”

“Welwyn, of course, my lord!”

“Welwyn?” Bruce repeated incredulously, letting his hands fall. “What the devil am I doing here?”

Smith cleared his throat carefully and said vaguely that he couldn’t say, sir. He technically could, as a matter of fact, answer this question, seeing as he had had a very illuminating conversation with the postilions this morning, but seeing as Mr Wayne seemed to consider this a rhetorical inquiry and was more concerned with massaging his temples, he chose to wait for sir’s memory to reassert itself.

When this did not seem to occur in the next minute, the landlord cleared his throat again and said helpfully,

“The young gentleman has ordered breakfast in the private parlour, sir.”

Mr Wayne’s eyes opened at that. “Gentleman? What gentleman?” he asked sharply.

“Why, the gentleman you arrived with, my lord.”

“The gentleman I – my god, what have I done?” Mr Wayne asked thickly, scrubbing his hands over his face. “Hell and the devil confound it, fetch some hot water immediately and convey my compliments to the gentleman. Tell him that it will be my honour to join him in half an hour – quickly, man!”

Shaved, dressed, and marginally less worse for wear thanks to a noxious glass of herbal concoction Smith swore by, Bruce went down to the parlour half an hour later to find Richard sitting by the table, a cup of coffee at his elbow and a roll on his plate. He somehow seemed as fresh as if he’d had his valet with him, while Bruce, who had had the creases removed from his coat and had tied his cravat once more into neat folds, was the one to appear pale and worried.

Faint colour rose in Richard’s cheeks when he looked up to find Bruce’s eyes upon him, but he smiled and said calmly, “Good morning, sir. A fine day, do you not think?”

“I do not have a thought to spare for the weather,” Bruce responded, closing the door and crossing carefully to the table where Richard had poured out a second cup of coffee. “Forgive me, but I do not have a very clear recollection of last night.”

“No, I did not think you would,” Richard said mildly, buttering his bread. “You were quite drunk, and told me so at least twice.”

“I wonder you did not heed me,” Bruce said, rubbing his forehead and gulping down his coffee. “Mr Grayson, was I so drunk that I – compelled you to come with me?”

“I came quite willingly, I promise,” Richard assured him.

Bruce gripped the back of the chair tightly. “What in god’s name induced you to commit such folly?”

“You won me,” he explained. “I was the stake set by my uncle.”

“I remember,” Bruce said. “I was surely mad and he –” he cut himself off, jaw tightening. “That you should have been subjected to such cruelty, such indignity!”

“It was not very pleasant,” agreed Richard. “It seemed preferable to leave with your escort rather than stay there another minute.” He raised his eyes to Bruce’s face, a somewhat shy smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “You have always treated me with a courtesy neither my uncle nor his cronies have ever accorded me. Besides,” he added, smile turning mischievous, “you told me you admired my spirit and assured me your intentions were honourable.”

“My – my intentions?” Bruce repeated, face turning even paler.

“Certainly, sir,” Richard said, lowering his eyes demurely before he began to grin. “You ordered your postilions to begin the journey to Gretna Green. We are on the way there, though of course we needed to stop and change the horses.”

“Gre –” Bruce pulled the chair out from under the table and sank into it, staring at Richard. “Gretna Green? God, this is awful!”

Richard winced, but managed to say in a considering voice, “Maybe a trifle out of the ordinary, perhaps. But if I do not mind, you do not need to: after all, you have a reputation for doing exactly as you choose.”

Bruce shoved himself away from the table, chair scraping loudly on the wooden floor, and began to pace in front on the unlit hearth. “My reputation is yet another reason you should have nothing to do with me! Were you mad, Mr Grayson?”

“No, I don’t think so, though of course one is not the most objective judge of one’s own sanity,” he said, cutting up an apple and munching on the slices. “It is not precisely the way I would have done it, but you offered me an escape from a man I loathe and a house in which I was determined to never spend another night until it is fully mine in deed and title.”

“You must have relations – someone –”

“You know perfectly well I have no one,” Richard said quietly, not quite a rebuke, and Bruce ran a hand through his hair in dismay.

“Mr Grayson, you do not seem to understand the consequences of this – this mistake! The scandal alone could ruin you.”

“As your husband,” Richard said meditatively, beginning to butter a second slice of bread, “I would expect you to protect me from such gossiping, slanderous tongues.”

Bruce groaned and braced both palms on the table. “Dick, the notice of my engagement is in today’s _Gazette_!”

There was a moment of silence, unbroken even by the bustle of the inn. Richard’s hand shook slightly and his face went white, but otherwise his voice was steady. “If that is the case, I must wonder what on earth possessed you to accept Slade’s stake.”

There was a look of starved longing in Bruce’s eyes as he answered, “I was drunk. I only knew what I wanted, not what I should do.” Pushing back from the table, he began to pace again. “Never mind that; we are in the devil of a fix, Dick.”

“May I – may I ask to whom you have become engaged?”

“Silver St. Cloud,” he answer dully. “It is a long-standing arrangement, made years ago between our families. I can’t, in all honour, draw back from it. That wretched notice – it is impossible to repudiate it, and it has surely been published already.”

Richard watched him with an inscrutable look upon his face. “Are you attached to the lady?”

“To Silver? Don’t be foolish,” he snapped impatiently. “It was the wish of my parents –” Bruce ran a hand through his hair again, tousling it into a state of disarray, and gestured impotently.

“I understand,” Richard said softly.

“I have been betrothed to Miss St. Cloud since we were in our cradles; it was an understood, if tacit, agreement. I offered for her the day before yesterday, and she accepted me.”

“So your excesses yesterday were something of a celebration?”

Bruce gave an ugly laugh. “My excesses, Mr Grayson, were an all-too-brief escape from reality.”

“If you do not truly care for Miss St. Cloud…” While there was affinity enough between them that they had always got along, Richard could not quite finish that sentence as he would wish to. _Surely your parents would want you to be happy_ would gain him no favours, so he simply asked, “Why offer for her?”

“You don’t understand: she has been brought up believing she is to be my wife,” Bruce replied, coming to a halt by the mantelpiece and resting his arm along the top. “I could do no less than offer for her.”

“Oh,” said Richard. “So she is fond of you?”

Bruce’s powerful shoulders moved in a hopeless shrug. “As to that, I could not say.”

They fell quiet once more, Bruce staring into the empty hearth and Richard sitting at the table, appetite quite destroyed. He finally gathered enough of his wits, and discarded the last of his nonsensical, wild hopes, to ask, “Do you mean to part ways with me here? I shall be in no danger, of course, but I fear,” and he cursed himself for the flush that painted his cheeks, “that I have no money with which to hire transport to carry me back to London.”

“Of course I won’t abandon you here,” Bruce said sharply. “I shall return you to London and force that worthless, pox-ridden, infernal uncle of yours to make provision for you.”

“Though you did tell him – and the others – you’d marry me,” Richard said lightly, straightening his plate and folding his napkin for something to do.

“God, no matter how much I wish it was different I can’t elope with you on the day my engagement to Silver is announced!”

Richard smiled at that, but not very mirthfully, and forced himself to meet Bruce’s intense gaze. “Forgive me, sir: I have been indulging in my reprehensible taste for mischief. I don’t mean to tease you any longer. When I left my house I was far too angry to consider what I was doing, and now I have had time for reflection I believe I know what my true course of action will be.” He got up and walked over to stand on the other side of the fireplace. “If you would be so good as to adhere to your offer to transport me to London, I will seek refuge with my old tutor, Mr Haly, who will, I’m sure, find me a similar position in a respectable family. I have letters, numbers, languages and athletics enough to recommend me.”

Bruce turned abruptly on his heel and faced the window overlooking the courtyard, grinding his teeth, hands in fists by his side. “A tutor for a dull, respectable family! Dick, oh Dick –” He broke off, gaze suddenly intent upon a carriage that had just pulled up outside the White Hart. A second later he recoiled, curses flying from his lips.

“What? What is it?” Richard asked sharply, hurrying forward to peer over Bruce’s shoulder.

“Silver!”

“ _What_? Are you sure?” Richard stared at the willowy woman descending from the carriage with blank astonishment.

“Of course I’m sure; do you think I would not know the woman I am engaged to?” Bruce hissed savagely, grabbing Richard’s shoulder and pulling them both away from the window. “What the devil is she doing here?”

“Surely she would not pursue you?”

“You don’t know Silver,” Bruce said ominously. “If she doesn’t have one of her spasms, or, god forbid, a hysterical fit, we shall count ourselves fortunate indeed!” He swept his eyes around the room and alighted upon a door at the other end. Once he saw it opened onto a roomy cupboard, Bruce said, “I have to warn the landlord to keep his mouth shut!” and with an apologetic look thrust Richard inside.

Hurrying into the corridor leading to the taproom, Bruce found he was not in time to intercept Smith, who was at that instant showing Miss St. Cloud into the coffee room. Coming face to face with his betrothed, Bruce resigned himself to the fact that he could not hide the news of his extraordinary elopement forever.

“Good morning, Silver,” he said instead with cold civility.

The young lady, whose apparent pursuit of her betrothed had disordered her senses to the degree where she tried to pair an orange bonnet with her silver-blond hair and rose-pink dress, froze with such an expression of incredulous horror on her face that Bruce felt his stomach drop. “ _You_!” She uttered, clasping her hands to her chest.

“Yes, yes, come into the parlour and for god’s sake let me have no fit of hysterics!” Bruce seized her by the wrist in a rather ungentlemanly fashion and tugged her inside, closing the door on Smith’s unveiled curiosity.

“Oh, how _could_ you, Bruce?” Silver demanded, wrenching her wrist from his grasp and cradling it to her heaving chest as she glared at him. “I wish I were dead!”

“You do not waste any time, I see,” Brue said scathingly. “Is this something I should expect for the rest of our marriage?”

“Do not speak to me,” commanded Silver imperiously, tossing her head. “I cannot believe you capable of this –”

“Oh, do be silent,” Bruce snapped. “You would have done better to stay at home!”

The lady, who had been considering flouncing over to the nearest chair, looked around at this and fairly stamped her foot. “Never, Bruce, never! Do you hear me?”

“It is extremely difficult not to,” he retorted, “and I imagine the rest of this place has no difficulties either! For your own sake, lower your voice! I am well aware explanations must be made, but this is not the place in which to fully discuss them. We must do all we can to avert the scandal.”

“I do not care a fig for the scandal,” declared Silver stormily. “People may say what they please, _I_ do not care! But to find you here, of all places! How cruel of you, Bruce!”

“I know,” he growled, driven almost to the end of his endurance, “and I’m sorry to upset you. Do calm down, Silver, and let me take you back to London –”

She shrank away. “Don’t touch me! You shall not take me back, you won’t!”

“Don’t be such a fool! And don’t you enact one of your Cheltenham tragedies either, for I have not the patience this morning.”

Silver hunted furiously through her reticule for a handkerchief and Bruce watched her warily for any sign of hysterics. “You are very angry, and I daresay I might have behaved badly, but I couldn’t bear it! You’ve no sensibility, no notion of a woman’s heart!”

Rather pale, and not just because Silver was dabbing at her eyes, Bruce made an attempt to modulate his tone and said, “Don’t distress yourself, Silver. This – this escapade – I swear I will give you no cause for worry when we are married.”

“I can’t,” she responded, blowing her nose defiantly. “I won’t go back!”

“Then perhaps you will tell me what you _will_ do,” he said with the last of his weary patience. God, Dick never tried his patience like this – exasperated him, sometimes; infuriated him, upon occasion, but he was never bored with him.

Silver stowed her handkerchief away and looked boldly across at him. “I am going to Gretna Green,” she announced, “and nothing you say shall stop me.”

“Of all the – have you completely taken leave of your senses?” Bruce demanded, “What for?”

“To be married there, obviously!”

“There is no need, and if you think it is _romantic_ – no, it is absolutely out of the question. If you go, you go alone.”

Silver shrieked in dismay and clung to his arm, staring beseechingly up at him. “Bruce, no! Good god, what do you intend to do? I beg of you, have mercy!”

Even with her dramatic temperament, this latest pronouncement seemed inexplicable and Bruce stared down at her in astonishment. He was just about to ask her to clarify the reason for her outburst when the door to the parlour was thrust open and a young man in a scarlet coat strode in, checking on the threshold at the sight of Bruce and staring at him with what Bruce considered unwarranted antagonism, seeing as he had never met the man before.

“My good sir, this is a private parlour,” he said icily.

Silver released his arm and sped towards the newcomer, throwing herself into his arms. “Stephen,” she cried, “this is Mr Wayne himself!”

The proclaimed Stephen said in an even, steady voice, “I concluded that it might be. Do not distress yourself, my dear. Sir, I hope you will give me the honour of a few words alone with you.”

“No, he will kill you!” Silver grasped the lapels of the man’s coat desperately, almost shaking him in her earnestness. “He is the best fencer in London!”

Bruce rubbed a hand across his forehead. Usually lauded as one of the best critical minds in London, this morning his faculties seemed to be rather slow to respond. “Who the devil are you?”

“I do not flatter myself that my name shall be known to you, sir, but it is Englehart – Captain Englehart of the –th Foot, at present on furlough from the Peninsula. I am aware my participation in such a situation as this will not endear me to you, and indeed I assure you I am fully aware of the impropriety of my actions, but I beg of you not to hold my desperate misery against me. I believe that once the matter is explained fully to you, any man of sense and sensibility will inevitably understand what drove me –”

“Captain Englehart,” Bruce mercilessly interrupted this flow of eloquence, “have you ever been badly foxed?”

“Foxed, my lord?” Captain Englehart asked in bemusement, staring at him.

“Yes, foxed,” snapped Bruce, fingers at his temples.

“Well – that is, I must say that upon occasion I have imbibed perhaps deeper than I ought –”

“Then you will know what a headache it brings the next morning, and thus I beg you to spare me any more of your long-winded speeches and simply tell me _what on earth you are doing here_.”

Miss St. Cloud, finding that for the last minute or so both men seemed to have forgotten her presence, thought it prudent to remind them. “I love him!”

“If you did you wouldn’t cling to his coat and ruin the lapels like that,” Bruce said unsympathetically. “Who is he, some relative you’ve dragged into this whole affair?”

“A relative? No, of course not! He is the man I am going to marry!”

“The man you – good god, is this an elopement?”

Silver stared at him. “But – but you know it is. Why else are you here, wanting to drag me back?”

Bruce almost reeled in shock, but he hadn’t spent almost his entire life in the eye of a watchful society for nothing and immediately brought his astonishment under control. “No, I had no idea! I thought – ah, it is no consequence what I thought. You must allow me to offer you my most sincere congratulations! You are on your way to Gretna Green, then? Please, I beg you not to delay your journey on my account! Indeed, you had best not lose a moment of your time; you must set forward at once. You may be pursued, you know.”

“Then – you did not pursue us?” Captain Englehart asked, bewildered.

“God no, nothing of the sort,” Bruce replied, shaking his hand fervently and herding him out of the door. “You have absolutely nothing to fear from me, and I wish you every happiness.”

“Every happiness?” Silver repeated, gaping at him. “Bruce, can you have forgotten I am engaged to you?”

“You will most certainly be happier with Captain Englehart,” Bruce assured her.

“But the _Gazette_ – the notice is in today’s _Gazette_!”

“Don’t let that stop you,” Bruce told them, “is a mere advertisement to stand in the path of such a love? I’ll repudiate it immediately.”

Silver gasped indignantly. “Don’t you want to marry me?”

“When hell freezes – I mean, how could I force myself between a couple so obviously in love?” Bruce recovered himself with considerable aplomb, chivvying the captain down the corridor towards the front door.

“But my mama – everyone – said I must marry you, for your mama wished it, and you were desperately in love with me! Only once I had said yes I realised I couldn’t bear it, so I sent instantly for Stephen –”

“Yes, yes, quite right, though I do wish you had thought to tell me this or sent for Stephen before I’d written that accursed notice for the _Gazette_ , but never mind. You must make haste, captain, for Sir Gregory St. Cloud is a proud man. He might tear his daughter from your arms should he catch up with you.”

Captain Englehart, who had been gazing in a rather stupefied manner at Bruce, said in a much-moved voice, “Sir, your generosity and understanding does you great honour! I had not hoped to find you so amiable, and thus must offer you a full account of what must seem to you treacherous behaviour –”

“No, there is certainly no need to explain anything,” Bruce said hastily, “and the longer you tarry, the more likely it is that a pursuit will be mounted. I could not in all conscience delay you any further.”

“But we stopped for breakfast!” Captain Englehart seemed surprised to find himself by the door, which Bruce was rather hurriedly opening for him, and Bruce shook his head.

“You had better not risk it, captain. At any moment your beloved Miss St. Cloud is in danger of being wrested from you.”

The mere thought of this terrible eventuality caused Silver to add her voice to Bruce’s, and Captain Englehart, still faintly protesting the absence of a cup of coffee, found himself swept inexorably over the threshold, out into the courtyard and to the door of his carriage. With a gesture Bruce had the postboys ready in their saddles and after Silver told the captain this was no time to be thinking of mundane things like food and drink, he finally found himself ushered up into his carriage with his beloved clambering in afterwards. Once more he made an attempt to explain the circumstances to Bruce but the postboys cracked their whips and the equipage swept from the courtyard with Captain Englehart hanging out of the window shouting something along the lines of ‘eternally grateful,’ ‘immense honour,’ and ‘deepest obligation.’

With a huge sigh, Bruce watched the carriage turn the corner and then hurried back into the parlour. Richard had emerged from the closet and was gripping the back of a chair for support as he gave in to a fit of laughter.

“Yes, that’s all very well, but it was damned awkward,” Bruce huffed, trying not to succumb to Richard’s infectious mirth. “I take it you heard?”

“I couldn’t help it,” Richard said, hiccupping back another chuckle and straightening up.

“We must go back to London at once.”

The last of the mirth swiftly drained from Richard’s face. “Yes.”

“For one thing,” Bruce said, slowly advancing upon him, “I want another change of clothes. For another, this Gretna scheme is ridiculous. I refuse to be married alongside that pair! We shall get a special licence and go out to the gardens of Wayne Manor.”

“But we are not going to be married,” Richard said, voice trembling slightly as he watched Bruce prowl around the table. He fought to remain still as he added, “It was a jest – I was angry, you were drunk –”

“You are mine,” Bruce told him, “I won you in fair play, a jewel beyond price, beyond any paltry sum of notes and cards, and you’re _mine_.”

Richard stared up at him, standing his ground even as a blush dusted his cheeks. “But –”

“Dick, I have been in love with you for months and you know it,” Bruce said.

“Oh!” Richard’s voice hitched and he brought his hands up to rest against Bruce’s chest, blinking rapidly when Bruce lifted his own hands to cradle those agile, delicate wrists. “I did so hope – I did think perhaps you were not indifferent to me!”

“Indifferent? When you were the only person to make me smile? Never!”

“This must be a dream,” Richard whispered, “this cannot be real!”

“Oh, can’t it?” Bruce demanded, and swept him into a crushing embrace. Any protests Richard may have had – he had none, as a matter of fact – were silenced by the many, many kisses pressed to his lips and by the strength of the arms wrapped around him. He had no breath left with which to object, and ensured that Bruce did not either by returning the kisses with equal fervour. Bruce did at last stop kissing him but showed no inclination to let him go; instead he cupped Richard’s beloved face in his hands and said,

“Well, Dick? Will you marry me?”

Bereft of breath, Richard could only nod his head.

 


End file.
